A Matter of Life and Death, chapter 4
Jan. 20th, 2011 06:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
minutia_rA Matter of Life and Death, chapter 4
Chapter 1
Chapter 5
Fandom: The Chronicles of Chrestomanci
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3200
Summary: The summer following The Lives of Christopher Chant, Christopher
meets an old friend while investigating a mysterious death.
Note: After rereading The Lives of Christopher Chant, I was somehow left with the impression that Christopher's father took him out of school immediately after he got killed. It has since been pointed out to me that Christopher actually went back to school for a few days. Until and unless I think of some way to harmonize this story with canon, I'm going to fall back on Nan Pilgrim's "stripes of the rainbow" theory of slightly-alternate universes.
Thanks to:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dracutgrl and murmbeetle
Christopher headed straight to Pugh's, alone, when they arrived at the London office the next morning. Tacroy and Rosalie's business took them in another direction entirely.
The tall lady in the neat black dress in the lobby of Pugh's seemed at a loss as to what to do with Christopher when he didn't have Tacroy and Rosalie with him. She told him that Oneir wasn't in. Whether he really wasn't in, or whether the lady had simply decided that Christopher could have no legitimate business with him, it was clear that there was no use in arguing.
"If I leave a note for him," said Christopher, "will you see that he gets it?"
The lady allowed as she would.
Christopher conjured a pen and paper—one of the heavy squares of card from Gabriel's desk. Using Gabriel's stationery had been one of the pleasures of being Chrestomanci, and if Gabriel didn't want Christopher to go on using it now that he was no longer Chrestomanci, he ought to keep it in a silver box or something. Christopher dashed off a note to Oneir and gave it to the lady. She held out a careless hand for it, but once she felt its weight and soft buttery texture she handled it almost reverently, and assured Christopher that she would give it to Oneir as soon as possible. Christopher believed her. She might not respect Christopher, but she respected Gabriel's stationery.
Then Christopher was left rather at loose ends. It was too late to join Tacroy and Rosalie on their errand; he had no idea where they had gone. The idea of sitting quietly in the office, or returning to the castle, didn't appeal. Here he was in London, with no responsibilities and no one looking over his shoulder; he was sure he could find something to do.
Instead, he shortly found that his aimless wandering had taken him to the house where the Bedes lived. Temperance sat in the tiny strip of garden in front of the house, dwarfed by the baby's pram. Christopher stopped, and looked again. Something was definitely wrong.
"Temperance," he said, "where's Patience?"
Temperance gave a little shake of her head, then lifted her chin and scowled, no more pleased with Christopher than she had been at their last meeting. "Right here, stupid," said Temperance. "On the step, talking to her stupid doll."
Patience was not on the step. Christopher had a sudden vivid memory of Vesta Bede saying goodbye to her daughters, straightening Temperance's hair ribbon, kissing Patience's doll. Temperance was wearing the same ribbon in her hair today.
Temperance startled, and then sat stiffly still, when Christopher reached over and began to work with both hands at a spot in the air directly above her left ear. It was a tight and fiddly spell-knot, but he had some experience with those. The threads dissolved as the knot came apart, and Temperance looked up at him with round and panicked eyes. "Where's Patience?" she said.
"That's what I asked you," Christopher said.
"You," Temperance snarled, "take me to Patience right now."
"Right," said Christopher. "I don't suppose she knows how to write her name yet."
Temperance didn't call Christopher stupid aloud again, but the look on her face did it eloquently enough.
"Bring me something of hers, then," said Christopher. "Something special to her, or that she usually has with her, if you can manage it." The doll would have been perfect, but Christopher was fairly certain that wherever Patience was now, her doll was too.
Temperance ran into the house, and Christopher was left in the garden with the baby. "Mm muh ma," said the baby, sticking its head out of the pram.
"Not you too," said Christopher. "None of this is my fault."
Temperance came back, clutching a length of white fabric. "This is all I could find," she said.
On top of everything else, Christopher was now going to have to walk the streets of London holding a small girl's nightdress. But it was a good thought. Patience had worn it every night for more than a year, and it felt strongly of her. There was a gentle tug to the east. Christopher followed it, and Temperance pushed the pram and hurried to keep up.
"I think," said Christopher, "that you had really better tell me now about your real dad, and your other dad."
Temperance gave Christopher a hard sidelong look. "Dads," she said finally. "They weren't really different people. I know that. I think Patience knows it." She scowled furiously. "Real Dad is the one who goes with you for a walk in the park after chapel on Sunday, and makes you feel sorry when you pull your sister's hair. Drunk Dad is the one who smells bad, and has shouting rows with Mum. Strange Dad is the one who doesn't blink properly, and has to lie down a lot, and copies Mum or Patience. I always thought Drunk Dad was the worst, but Patience was more scared of Strange Dad. Since Forty was born, we've had Strange Dad all the time."
Christopher's fist tightened around the flimsy nightdress. This was not the first time Vesta Bede had enlisted Patience's help in her magical workings, then. What sort of person looked at a tiny girl and thought, how can I use her? Christopher knew the answer to that one intimately.
"What are you doing?" said Temperance. "We've been around this block twice."
And so they had. Either Patience was being hidden, or there was a misdirection set up, or . . . in any case, the nightdress had got them this close and was not going to get them any closer. He could set up a more precise location spell. But that would take time, and it was magician's work and Christopher was no good at it. Or he could think.
If he were Vesta Bede, what would he do once he fetched Patience to himself? Break out of jail, first of all. But the jail was at Bow Street Station, across town, and Patience was somewhere nearby. And just breaking out of jail was no good if you had no money, and nowhere to go. Vesta Bede could not slip around a corner into an Anywhere. She must have had a plan . . . or must she?
Christopher remembered Vesta Bede standing in her parlor, surrounded by stinging magic, defying Rosalie and the rest of them. It had not been money that had made her do what she had done, not just money. It was anger. Christopher understood anger.
Slavery, Mama had called it when Christopher first came to the castle to live, and Christopher had agreed. He had wanted to call down a whirlwind, summon up fire, the biggest, most destructive magic he could manage. But Vesta Bede was not an enchanter. She was a necromancer. Christopher looked up over the roofs of the houses, and saw a church bell tower, the model of the one in Vesta Bede's cabinet. "There," he said, and broke into a run. Temperance pelted after him, pram wheels clattering.
The street was deserted when they got to the church, but the big iron gate of the churchyard stood ajar. Many of these older graveyards had sections where people had been buried in the plague year; no headstones, no coffins, all jumbled together. Vesta Bede sat facing Patience across a heap of turned-over earth and ancient bones, their hands moving together as if they were playing a clapping game. There was no expression on Patience's face, and she didn't blink. There was a smell of fresh bread. Christopher's stomach turned over. Temperance screamed.
The church door shimmered like the one at the Bedes' flat; Christopher knew where it led now. He had been in and out of that door six times already, and if he didn't look, he could probably keep his breakfast down. Vesta Bede, intent on the spell she was guiding Patience through, didn't glance up. But Christopher couldn't work with Temperance screaming, and the baby wailing counterpoint. "Temperance," he said, surprised at how even his own voice was, "what's your job?"
Temperance swallowed her scream, and tried to speak. It came out a sob. She tried again. "Taking—taking care of Patience and Fortitude," she said.
"Right," said Christopher. "So when I say run, you grab Patience and you run."
There were tears and snot running down Temperance's face, but she lifted her chin, and nodded.
Vesta Bede stood, and Patience did too. She turned around, and Patience did too. Her eye fell on Temperance, and a line of magic stretched out, daughter to mother to daughter. Christopher grabbed it, and pulled. "Run," he said.
Quick as a falcon, Temperance ran across the churchyard, her wispy hair flying out behind her, weaving through headstones without slowing. Christopher held on to the line of magic that Vesta Bede kept trying to throw at Temperance with one hand, and tried to break the one connecting her to Patience with the other. There was no question that Christopher's magic was stronger than Patience's, but the line twisted around itself again and again; he broke one strand, and another began to knit itself together. Temperance grabbed Patience's hand. Patience's face turned unblinkingly towards her mother's like a flower towards the sun, and her free hand moved blindly in the gestures of the spell. Temperance ran back towards Christopher, dragging Patience along anyhow. Christopher still couldn't break the line of Patience's magic, but slowly he began to stretch it. Temperance came up beside him. Her other hand closed around the handle of the baby's pram. "Run far," said Christopher.
Temperance clattered out of the churchyard, dragging one sister and pushing the other. Patience's magic stretched and stretched. Christopher let go of the free end of magic he was holding, and used both hands to tear apart the other. Patience was free. But the greater part of her magic snapped back to Vesta Bede.
The free end of magic whipped forward and caught Christopher around the neck. He tugged at it impatiently as Vesta Bede brought her hands sharply down, and spoke something somewhere between a word and a shriek. The bones at her feet stirred slightly. The energy in the church doorway, seen out of the edge of Christopher's eye, bulged, obscenely pregnant. Something big was coming through, or would if Vesta Bede finished calling it. The great bell in the tower swung back.
The bell was heavy, heavy, and it wanted to swing. But it was iron, not silver, and Christopher could hold it in place as long as he needed to. What he found he could not do was hold the bell in place and deal with the stray line of magic that was once again winding itself around his throat. Now would be an excellent time to call Gabriel. But Christopher couldn't speak.
And then a figure was standing between Christopher and Vesta Bede, nearly close enough to touch. It wasn't Gabriel; it was Oneir. He was holding a square of heavy, butter-colored card. I have really got to start putting my enchanter's seal on things I sign with my own name, thought Christopher dazedly.
Vesta Bede's attention was caught by the newcomer for a moment. Christopher let the bell down gently and silently, tore the choking line of magic off his neck, and balled it up between his hands. "Oneir!" he called hoarsely. "Catch!"
Oneir's eyes went from Christopher to Vesta Bede in confusion. But he snatched the ball of magic out of the air very handily.
Vesta Bede snarled, lifted then brought down her hands, and pulled the bell back for another swing. Christopher was ready this time. He pulled energy desperately away from the church door, the pile of bones, the sticky strands of magic connecting them. When he had too much to hold, he put it into the ball in Oneir's hand, and pulled some more. The bell sounded, loud and hollow. "Push it back at her!" Christopher shouted over it.
This wasn't Oneir's style of magic, but he knew enough to add his strength to Christopher's. Whatever it was that Vesta Bede had been summoning grounded itself in her and returned to the earth. She crumpled and fell.
"She isn't dead, is she?" said Christopher, hurrying towards her.
"No," said Oneir, who was already kneeling by her head. "Just knocked out, I think."
"Good," said Christopher. Not that Vesta Bede particularly deserved to live, but Christopher had never killed anybody and didn't want to start now. Oneir, of course, had; and Christopher didn't want to be the one to make him do it again, either.
But Oneir was right. Vesta Bede's chest was rising and falling. Christopher put a hand on it, and then, intangibly, into it.
"What are you doing?" said Oneir.
Christopher's hand came out covered in sticky threads, and he began to wind them. "Taking away her magic," he said. Actually, Vesta Bede's magic had been taken away yesterday. This was Patience's. Christopher would have to see that she got it back. And her nightdress. "Gabriel's never taught me to do it—I'm sure he thinks I'd misuse it—but I think I see how it's done." The magic, all wound up, made a surprisingly compact ball. Christopher tucked it into his pocket. "How did you know to come here?" he asked.
"I had a presentiment when Miss Larch gave me your card," said Oneir. "They run in my family, you know. It's how we got into insurance in the first place . . . Chant?"
Unfortunately, Christopher's body seemed to have decided that the danger was over. He managed to say, "Excuse me," and stagger over to a rosebush before his stomach turned itself inside out.
"Are you all right, Chant?" said Oneir when he was finished.
Christopher sat heavily on the ground and rested his head against the blessedly cool tombstone of Elijah Gotobed, 1832-1905. "I'm fine," he said. "It's just . . . necromancy. It always gets to me, I don't know why."
Oneir crossed his arms on top of the tombstone, and rested his chin on them. "You know, most people don't think of death as some sort of jolly picnic," he said. There was an edge of bitterness in his voice. "Or maybe you don't know."
Christopher sighed. He was exhausted, his mouth tasted vile, his hands were shaking, and he didn't want to argue. "You saved my life, Oneir," he said. "Can we call it even? Please?"
"Tell me," said Oneir, "what would you have done if I hadn't come by?"
"Died," said Christopher. "And hoped that Mordecai and Rosalie, or Gabriel, had sorted things out by the time I came alive again."
Oneir shook his head incredulously. "How many lives have you got left really?" he said.
"Three," admitted Christopher.
"All right, Chant. We're even." Oneir laughed. "But I am never going to insure you."
There was a clatter of wheels by the gate of the churchyard, and Rosalie burst though, pushing the pram. Tacroy ran alongside her, with Patience in his arms—Patience pale and drained, but clearly Real Patience once more. Temperance hurried along behind them.
Rosalie was red and panting, and Tacroy's face had gone gray, and Christopher could see that they were going to fuss. But Christopher had just defeated an evil sorceress, and he didn't want to be fussed over. He pulled himself to his feet, leaning on the tombstone. "Good of you two to show up," he said.
Rosalie folded her arms across her chest. "You haven't gone and lost another life, have you?" she said.
"No thanks to you," said Christopher, "but no."
"Good," said Rosalie. "Gabriel would never let me hear the end of it." Then she hugged him fiercely. Christopher gave up making sarcastic comments, and hugged her back.
"Temperance told us how you found Patience," said Tacroy. "That was well done."
"I did what you said. I looked at things from Vesta Bede's point of view." Christopher clenched his hands, which had started shaking again. "It wasn't very nice."
"No," agreed Tacroy.
"What's going to happen to Temperance, Patience, and Fortitude now?" said Christopher.
"I'll take care of Patience and Forty, stupid," said Temperance. "It's my job."
"And after what you did today nobody could deny that you're very good at it," said Rosalie. "But it's a big job, and you shouldn't have to do it by yourself all the time. You have other important jobs, like going to school, learning your lessons, making friends."
Temperance looked up at her skeptically.
"We spoke to a judge this morning," Tacroy said. "Until your mother gets out of prison—and if you'd like to—you can live with us."
Patience raised her cheek from his shoulder. "All of us?" she said.
"Yes," said Tacroy.
"That's all right, then," said Patience, and let her head drop.
"How long until Mum gets out of prison?" said Temperance.
"I don't know," said Rosalie. "That will be up to another judge, and a jury. But I think it will be several years."
"Good," said Temperance.
"They're going to live in the castle?" said Christopher.
"That would be a bit much for poor Gabriel," said Rosalie. "No, with Mordecai and me."
"But you live in the castle," said Christopher.
"Not anymore," said Tacroy. "We always meant to move into a house in the village once we were married. It isn't quite ready, but we can live with builders underfoot for a few weeks."
"Judges tend to be much happier about fostering children with couples who are married," said Rosalie. "Luckily we already had the license."
Now that Christopher was looking, he could see the gleam of gold under Rosalie's black lace mitten. "Congratulations," he said weakly. Then he grinned. "Miss Rosalie, your aunts are going to be furious!"
"Aren't they just?" said Rosalie. "I am sorry to disappoint Millie, though. I know she was looking forward to the wedding."
"But . . . if you're going to live in the village," said Christopher, "are you going play on their team, when there's a cricket match against the castle?"
Tacroy's eyes crinkled. "You know, I hadn't considered it," he said.
"I suppose we'll be bound to," said Rosalie, dimpling.
"But I want to live in a castle," Patience complained sleepily.
"You'll visit it a lot," Tacroy promised her. "We'll be there nearly every day." He was speaking to Patience, but he was looking at Christopher.
"Speaking of which," said Rosalie, turning to Oneir. He looked surprised that someone had remembered he was there. "I hope you won't let today's events discourage you. Things are not usually quite so exciting."
"What?" said Oneir.
"I forgot to ask," said Christopher. "Will you come visit at the castle, Oneir? Gabriel says you can."
"Well, I've got this job," said Oneir. "But I'm going to have a real holiday for the week before school, and then . . . sure."
Chapter 1
Chapter 5
Fandom: The Chronicles of Chrestomanci
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3200
Summary: The summer following The Lives of Christopher Chant, Christopher
meets an old friend while investigating a mysterious death.
Note: After rereading The Lives of Christopher Chant, I was somehow left with the impression that Christopher's father took him out of school immediately after he got killed. It has since been pointed out to me that Christopher actually went back to school for a few days. Until and unless I think of some way to harmonize this story with canon, I'm going to fall back on Nan Pilgrim's "stripes of the rainbow" theory of slightly-alternate universes.
Thanks to:
dracutgrl and murmbeetleChristopher headed straight to Pugh's, alone, when they arrived at the London office the next morning. Tacroy and Rosalie's business took them in another direction entirely.
The tall lady in the neat black dress in the lobby of Pugh's seemed at a loss as to what to do with Christopher when he didn't have Tacroy and Rosalie with him. She told him that Oneir wasn't in. Whether he really wasn't in, or whether the lady had simply decided that Christopher could have no legitimate business with him, it was clear that there was no use in arguing.
"If I leave a note for him," said Christopher, "will you see that he gets it?"
The lady allowed as she would.
Christopher conjured a pen and paper—one of the heavy squares of card from Gabriel's desk. Using Gabriel's stationery had been one of the pleasures of being Chrestomanci, and if Gabriel didn't want Christopher to go on using it now that he was no longer Chrestomanci, he ought to keep it in a silver box or something. Christopher dashed off a note to Oneir and gave it to the lady. She held out a careless hand for it, but once she felt its weight and soft buttery texture she handled it almost reverently, and assured Christopher that she would give it to Oneir as soon as possible. Christopher believed her. She might not respect Christopher, but she respected Gabriel's stationery.
Then Christopher was left rather at loose ends. It was too late to join Tacroy and Rosalie on their errand; he had no idea where they had gone. The idea of sitting quietly in the office, or returning to the castle, didn't appeal. Here he was in London, with no responsibilities and no one looking over his shoulder; he was sure he could find something to do.
Instead, he shortly found that his aimless wandering had taken him to the house where the Bedes lived. Temperance sat in the tiny strip of garden in front of the house, dwarfed by the baby's pram. Christopher stopped, and looked again. Something was definitely wrong.
"Temperance," he said, "where's Patience?"
Temperance gave a little shake of her head, then lifted her chin and scowled, no more pleased with Christopher than she had been at their last meeting. "Right here, stupid," said Temperance. "On the step, talking to her stupid doll."
Patience was not on the step. Christopher had a sudden vivid memory of Vesta Bede saying goodbye to her daughters, straightening Temperance's hair ribbon, kissing Patience's doll. Temperance was wearing the same ribbon in her hair today.
Temperance startled, and then sat stiffly still, when Christopher reached over and began to work with both hands at a spot in the air directly above her left ear. It was a tight and fiddly spell-knot, but he had some experience with those. The threads dissolved as the knot came apart, and Temperance looked up at him with round and panicked eyes. "Where's Patience?" she said.
"That's what I asked you," Christopher said.
"You," Temperance snarled, "take me to Patience right now."
"Right," said Christopher. "I don't suppose she knows how to write her name yet."
Temperance didn't call Christopher stupid aloud again, but the look on her face did it eloquently enough.
"Bring me something of hers, then," said Christopher. "Something special to her, or that she usually has with her, if you can manage it." The doll would have been perfect, but Christopher was fairly certain that wherever Patience was now, her doll was too.
Temperance ran into the house, and Christopher was left in the garden with the baby. "Mm muh ma," said the baby, sticking its head out of the pram.
"Not you too," said Christopher. "None of this is my fault."
Temperance came back, clutching a length of white fabric. "This is all I could find," she said.
On top of everything else, Christopher was now going to have to walk the streets of London holding a small girl's nightdress. But it was a good thought. Patience had worn it every night for more than a year, and it felt strongly of her. There was a gentle tug to the east. Christopher followed it, and Temperance pushed the pram and hurried to keep up.
"I think," said Christopher, "that you had really better tell me now about your real dad, and your other dad."
Temperance gave Christopher a hard sidelong look. "Dads," she said finally. "They weren't really different people. I know that. I think Patience knows it." She scowled furiously. "Real Dad is the one who goes with you for a walk in the park after chapel on Sunday, and makes you feel sorry when you pull your sister's hair. Drunk Dad is the one who smells bad, and has shouting rows with Mum. Strange Dad is the one who doesn't blink properly, and has to lie down a lot, and copies Mum or Patience. I always thought Drunk Dad was the worst, but Patience was more scared of Strange Dad. Since Forty was born, we've had Strange Dad all the time."
Christopher's fist tightened around the flimsy nightdress. This was not the first time Vesta Bede had enlisted Patience's help in her magical workings, then. What sort of person looked at a tiny girl and thought, how can I use her? Christopher knew the answer to that one intimately.
"What are you doing?" said Temperance. "We've been around this block twice."
And so they had. Either Patience was being hidden, or there was a misdirection set up, or . . . in any case, the nightdress had got them this close and was not going to get them any closer. He could set up a more precise location spell. But that would take time, and it was magician's work and Christopher was no good at it. Or he could think.
If he were Vesta Bede, what would he do once he fetched Patience to himself? Break out of jail, first of all. But the jail was at Bow Street Station, across town, and Patience was somewhere nearby. And just breaking out of jail was no good if you had no money, and nowhere to go. Vesta Bede could not slip around a corner into an Anywhere. She must have had a plan . . . or must she?
Christopher remembered Vesta Bede standing in her parlor, surrounded by stinging magic, defying Rosalie and the rest of them. It had not been money that had made her do what she had done, not just money. It was anger. Christopher understood anger.
Slavery, Mama had called it when Christopher first came to the castle to live, and Christopher had agreed. He had wanted to call down a whirlwind, summon up fire, the biggest, most destructive magic he could manage. But Vesta Bede was not an enchanter. She was a necromancer. Christopher looked up over the roofs of the houses, and saw a church bell tower, the model of the one in Vesta Bede's cabinet. "There," he said, and broke into a run. Temperance pelted after him, pram wheels clattering.
The street was deserted when they got to the church, but the big iron gate of the churchyard stood ajar. Many of these older graveyards had sections where people had been buried in the plague year; no headstones, no coffins, all jumbled together. Vesta Bede sat facing Patience across a heap of turned-over earth and ancient bones, their hands moving together as if they were playing a clapping game. There was no expression on Patience's face, and she didn't blink. There was a smell of fresh bread. Christopher's stomach turned over. Temperance screamed.
The church door shimmered like the one at the Bedes' flat; Christopher knew where it led now. He had been in and out of that door six times already, and if he didn't look, he could probably keep his breakfast down. Vesta Bede, intent on the spell she was guiding Patience through, didn't glance up. But Christopher couldn't work with Temperance screaming, and the baby wailing counterpoint. "Temperance," he said, surprised at how even his own voice was, "what's your job?"
Temperance swallowed her scream, and tried to speak. It came out a sob. She tried again. "Taking—taking care of Patience and Fortitude," she said.
"Right," said Christopher. "So when I say run, you grab Patience and you run."
There were tears and snot running down Temperance's face, but she lifted her chin, and nodded.
Vesta Bede stood, and Patience did too. She turned around, and Patience did too. Her eye fell on Temperance, and a line of magic stretched out, daughter to mother to daughter. Christopher grabbed it, and pulled. "Run," he said.
Quick as a falcon, Temperance ran across the churchyard, her wispy hair flying out behind her, weaving through headstones without slowing. Christopher held on to the line of magic that Vesta Bede kept trying to throw at Temperance with one hand, and tried to break the one connecting her to Patience with the other. There was no question that Christopher's magic was stronger than Patience's, but the line twisted around itself again and again; he broke one strand, and another began to knit itself together. Temperance grabbed Patience's hand. Patience's face turned unblinkingly towards her mother's like a flower towards the sun, and her free hand moved blindly in the gestures of the spell. Temperance ran back towards Christopher, dragging Patience along anyhow. Christopher still couldn't break the line of Patience's magic, but slowly he began to stretch it. Temperance came up beside him. Her other hand closed around the handle of the baby's pram. "Run far," said Christopher.
Temperance clattered out of the churchyard, dragging one sister and pushing the other. Patience's magic stretched and stretched. Christopher let go of the free end of magic he was holding, and used both hands to tear apart the other. Patience was free. But the greater part of her magic snapped back to Vesta Bede.
The free end of magic whipped forward and caught Christopher around the neck. He tugged at it impatiently as Vesta Bede brought her hands sharply down, and spoke something somewhere between a word and a shriek. The bones at her feet stirred slightly. The energy in the church doorway, seen out of the edge of Christopher's eye, bulged, obscenely pregnant. Something big was coming through, or would if Vesta Bede finished calling it. The great bell in the tower swung back.
The bell was heavy, heavy, and it wanted to swing. But it was iron, not silver, and Christopher could hold it in place as long as he needed to. What he found he could not do was hold the bell in place and deal with the stray line of magic that was once again winding itself around his throat. Now would be an excellent time to call Gabriel. But Christopher couldn't speak.
And then a figure was standing between Christopher and Vesta Bede, nearly close enough to touch. It wasn't Gabriel; it was Oneir. He was holding a square of heavy, butter-colored card. I have really got to start putting my enchanter's seal on things I sign with my own name, thought Christopher dazedly.
Vesta Bede's attention was caught by the newcomer for a moment. Christopher let the bell down gently and silently, tore the choking line of magic off his neck, and balled it up between his hands. "Oneir!" he called hoarsely. "Catch!"
Oneir's eyes went from Christopher to Vesta Bede in confusion. But he snatched the ball of magic out of the air very handily.
Vesta Bede snarled, lifted then brought down her hands, and pulled the bell back for another swing. Christopher was ready this time. He pulled energy desperately away from the church door, the pile of bones, the sticky strands of magic connecting them. When he had too much to hold, he put it into the ball in Oneir's hand, and pulled some more. The bell sounded, loud and hollow. "Push it back at her!" Christopher shouted over it.
This wasn't Oneir's style of magic, but he knew enough to add his strength to Christopher's. Whatever it was that Vesta Bede had been summoning grounded itself in her and returned to the earth. She crumpled and fell.
"She isn't dead, is she?" said Christopher, hurrying towards her.
"No," said Oneir, who was already kneeling by her head. "Just knocked out, I think."
"Good," said Christopher. Not that Vesta Bede particularly deserved to live, but Christopher had never killed anybody and didn't want to start now. Oneir, of course, had; and Christopher didn't want to be the one to make him do it again, either.
But Oneir was right. Vesta Bede's chest was rising and falling. Christopher put a hand on it, and then, intangibly, into it.
"What are you doing?" said Oneir.
Christopher's hand came out covered in sticky threads, and he began to wind them. "Taking away her magic," he said. Actually, Vesta Bede's magic had been taken away yesterday. This was Patience's. Christopher would have to see that she got it back. And her nightdress. "Gabriel's never taught me to do it—I'm sure he thinks I'd misuse it—but I think I see how it's done." The magic, all wound up, made a surprisingly compact ball. Christopher tucked it into his pocket. "How did you know to come here?" he asked.
"I had a presentiment when Miss Larch gave me your card," said Oneir. "They run in my family, you know. It's how we got into insurance in the first place . . . Chant?"
Unfortunately, Christopher's body seemed to have decided that the danger was over. He managed to say, "Excuse me," and stagger over to a rosebush before his stomach turned itself inside out.
"Are you all right, Chant?" said Oneir when he was finished.
Christopher sat heavily on the ground and rested his head against the blessedly cool tombstone of Elijah Gotobed, 1832-1905. "I'm fine," he said. "It's just . . . necromancy. It always gets to me, I don't know why."
Oneir crossed his arms on top of the tombstone, and rested his chin on them. "You know, most people don't think of death as some sort of jolly picnic," he said. There was an edge of bitterness in his voice. "Or maybe you don't know."
Christopher sighed. He was exhausted, his mouth tasted vile, his hands were shaking, and he didn't want to argue. "You saved my life, Oneir," he said. "Can we call it even? Please?"
"Tell me," said Oneir, "what would you have done if I hadn't come by?"
"Died," said Christopher. "And hoped that Mordecai and Rosalie, or Gabriel, had sorted things out by the time I came alive again."
Oneir shook his head incredulously. "How many lives have you got left really?" he said.
"Three," admitted Christopher.
"All right, Chant. We're even." Oneir laughed. "But I am never going to insure you."
There was a clatter of wheels by the gate of the churchyard, and Rosalie burst though, pushing the pram. Tacroy ran alongside her, with Patience in his arms—Patience pale and drained, but clearly Real Patience once more. Temperance hurried along behind them.
Rosalie was red and panting, and Tacroy's face had gone gray, and Christopher could see that they were going to fuss. But Christopher had just defeated an evil sorceress, and he didn't want to be fussed over. He pulled himself to his feet, leaning on the tombstone. "Good of you two to show up," he said.
Rosalie folded her arms across her chest. "You haven't gone and lost another life, have you?" she said.
"No thanks to you," said Christopher, "but no."
"Good," said Rosalie. "Gabriel would never let me hear the end of it." Then she hugged him fiercely. Christopher gave up making sarcastic comments, and hugged her back.
"Temperance told us how you found Patience," said Tacroy. "That was well done."
"I did what you said. I looked at things from Vesta Bede's point of view." Christopher clenched his hands, which had started shaking again. "It wasn't very nice."
"No," agreed Tacroy.
"What's going to happen to Temperance, Patience, and Fortitude now?" said Christopher.
"I'll take care of Patience and Forty, stupid," said Temperance. "It's my job."
"And after what you did today nobody could deny that you're very good at it," said Rosalie. "But it's a big job, and you shouldn't have to do it by yourself all the time. You have other important jobs, like going to school, learning your lessons, making friends."
Temperance looked up at her skeptically.
"We spoke to a judge this morning," Tacroy said. "Until your mother gets out of prison—and if you'd like to—you can live with us."
Patience raised her cheek from his shoulder. "All of us?" she said.
"Yes," said Tacroy.
"That's all right, then," said Patience, and let her head drop.
"How long until Mum gets out of prison?" said Temperance.
"I don't know," said Rosalie. "That will be up to another judge, and a jury. But I think it will be several years."
"Good," said Temperance.
"They're going to live in the castle?" said Christopher.
"That would be a bit much for poor Gabriel," said Rosalie. "No, with Mordecai and me."
"But you live in the castle," said Christopher.
"Not anymore," said Tacroy. "We always meant to move into a house in the village once we were married. It isn't quite ready, but we can live with builders underfoot for a few weeks."
"Judges tend to be much happier about fostering children with couples who are married," said Rosalie. "Luckily we already had the license."
Now that Christopher was looking, he could see the gleam of gold under Rosalie's black lace mitten. "Congratulations," he said weakly. Then he grinned. "Miss Rosalie, your aunts are going to be furious!"
"Aren't they just?" said Rosalie. "I am sorry to disappoint Millie, though. I know she was looking forward to the wedding."
"But . . . if you're going to live in the village," said Christopher, "are you going play on their team, when there's a cricket match against the castle?"
Tacroy's eyes crinkled. "You know, I hadn't considered it," he said.
"I suppose we'll be bound to," said Rosalie, dimpling.
"But I want to live in a castle," Patience complained sleepily.
"You'll visit it a lot," Tacroy promised her. "We'll be there nearly every day." He was speaking to Patience, but he was looking at Christopher.
"Speaking of which," said Rosalie, turning to Oneir. He looked surprised that someone had remembered he was there. "I hope you won't let today's events discourage you. Things are not usually quite so exciting."
"What?" said Oneir.
"I forgot to ask," said Christopher. "Will you come visit at the castle, Oneir? Gabriel says you can."
"Well, I've got this job," said Oneir. "But I'm going to have a real holiday for the week before school, and then . . . sure."
